Bad Horse: Haywire: My Rise to Evilness
by bauble123
Summary: Ever wanted to know how the infamous Bad Horse, thoroughbred of sin became a villain? The stunning new autobiography of Bad Horse, head of the evil league of evil, divulges all, telling his tale from stables to evil league tables.
1. Prologue

Bad Horse

Haywire: My Rise To Evilness

The long-awaited book is finally here! We know all you villains out there have been waiting for this for such a long time, but now the secret is out in Bad Horse's autobiography _Haywire: My Rise to Evilness._

**Praise for Haywire: My Rise to Evilness**

"Amazing. Everything you always wanted to know about the infamous Bad Horse – the perfect present for that wannabe super-villain." -Adrian Pense, Villainous Weekly.

"Bad Horse has always been my hero, and this is the ultimate realisation of my dreams." –Doctor Horrible, Evil League of Evil.

"Beautiful writing – Bad Horse has a way with a pen as intuitive and innovative as his heists." –Claire Delaine, Book Club Central reviews.

About the author:

Bad Horse is the notoriously successful head of the evil league of evil. Bad Horse succeeded the previous head, Morning Star, in 1998, since when he has made major changes and improved the revenue of the league by an amazing amount. Bad Horse is a chestnut mustang thoroughbred, a highly commended breed brought to further success thanks to Bad Horse.


	2. Chapter 1: Heroic Origins

**One: Heroic Origins**

My mother was a chestnut mustang and my father was a liver chestnut mustang. I was born in 1994 in a small stable in Ohio where I lived for a few months in the safety and security of a stall shared with my mother. Each morning we were groomed and fed by doting trainers, and then we were allowed to roam free in the paddocks and meadows of the place, my mother eating dandelions and sweet violets while I gambolled about to my heart's content. I was content, and I enjoyed my time, but within me something gave me the feeling that I was destined for something better than that – that there was more to the world than a few meadows and stalls and relaxation. I wanted thrills and adventure.

The stable was famous for the purity of its foals, and at six months old I was bought by a famous breeder and trainer from Chicago, who saw in me the potential for greatness. I was then forced to endure a strenuous and taxing and, above all, lengthy journey to the edges of Chicago and to the stable that was to be my home. I was tranquilised on arrival, though, at the time, being but a colt, I knew nothing of this and did not understand.

I awoke in a small, dark stall. Putting my head out of the top of the door, I came into contact with another horse: a pretty grey filly a little older than I, with large grey eyes and lashes the colour of sunflower seeds. "Hello." She said. "My name is Viennese Triste, but you can call me Vi, since we're going to be neighbours. What's yours?" I had no idea. I sought for some name that would impress the girl.

"Bad Horse." I said. It was the perfect name for me, and even as I said it I felt a surge of rightness, a true sense of homecoming. "Yes, Bad Horse." I repeated.

"So what do you do, Bad?" Vi asked me. I was nonplussed.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, like, do you do dressage, or jumping, or racing?"

"I don't know."

"I do dressage." Vi announced proudly. "They knew I was perfect for it when they saw the way I lifted my feet. I'm a pure bred Lipizzaner." She added.

"What - one of the famous white horses of the Vienna Spanish riding school?"

"Yes."

"That's impressive. I must say your colour is purer than any I've seen."

"I know." She said, daintily. "My trainer calls me gorgeous."

"How nice for you."

"Indeed. How about you – what's your pedigree?"

"I'm a thoroughbred mustang." I proclaimed.

"Mm? I haven't heard of a mustang."

"It's a very prestigious breed." I wanted desperately to impress the Lipizzaner. It seems stupid now, looking back. I mean, she was thoroughly inferior to me – not even a pure-bred. Her mother was a Lipizzaner Camargue cross. "It originated in the beauteous wild horses of the American plains."

"You're a yank?" She seemed surprised.

"Well, yes."

"Really? You?"

"Yes."

"I thought you were classy enough to be a European breed. Clearly I was wrong." She lifted her head and looked down at me disdainfully over her nose.

"Is there something wrong with America?"

"Yeah, duh. All countries have their trademarks: the Spanish are beautiful," She batted her eyelashes at me enticingly. "Like me, the French are a lovely colour, but can be snobbish, the British are from families with untainted heritage, and proud of their history – they're strong, too, the Italians are passionate, the Russians are snooty but amazing at what they do, the Germans are stoical and serious, the oriental breeds are small, fast and clever, the eastern breeds are whimsical, the Nordic breeds are close-knit and mysterious…and the Americans are vulgar and will never get anywhere." I was disgruntled – how dare this stuck-up Spanish brat insult my country? I resolved, then and there, to prove that an American horse could be incredible, and do something no horse had ever done before, reaching new and greater heights for equestrians.

That was the beginnings of Bad Horse.


End file.
